1763

Somewhere Between Agra And Azizpur

The cool water revived Matthew Lambton. He blinked to adjust to the afternoon sun stinging his eyes. He wiped the water from his face, and almost immediately winced as the pain at the base of his neck returned. The memory of what he endured resurfaced. He sprang up on one leg and peered around him with the exaggerated wariness of a hunted animal.

The trees swayed silently in a soft breeze. Sun beams pierced the thick green ceiling of the forest and found their soft destination in the dust.

They were gone. He had counted six brigands, armed with knives and sticks. His mount was gone as well, with all the West-African trinkets he had hoped to take as gifts to Azizpur. Also gone was the youth he had...

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